Rock Hell

Jimi was not yet too far gone to abandon all attempts to sing, but
all that emerged was a bitter, self-mocking warble:

"There must be some kinda way outta here Said the joker to the
thief?"

His voice was getting worse and worse, and guitars weren't allowed
in Rock Hell; everyone was unaccompanied here. Janis was slumped
nearby; she half-recognised that the words were song lyrics, though
here they were as inspiring as sludge. Maybe she had some of her own;
delving into memories of better times was like hauling water from a
deep, deep well, but she felt she had to try before the effort forever
became too great:

"I need a man to love?" she crooned wearily. A rock demon suddenly
swooped in with despair in his wings.

To Jimi: "Well, there isn't!"

To Janis: "You can't have one!"

And he flew away cackling to find another victim.

Rock demons are not numerous, and there is never a shortage of
volunteers. After all, the work is hardly exacting as most of the
inhabitants of Rock Hell have brought their own misery with them, their
lives of excess often cut short by suicides and drug overdoses.

Jim had seen and heard the whole thing. One of his own lyrics,
pinched of course from William Blake, came into his mind: "Some are
born to sweet delight. Some are born to the endless night." Only he
refrained from voicing it; there was enough torment here already.

Rock Hell is, of course, Progressive. Glowing tridents and
balrog-whips went out years ago. "Never did me any harm," stoutly
declared the scarred old blues men, so of course the physical stuff had
to go. Words which literally come back and haunt proved to be a much
better and durable torment, especially where singer-songwriters were
concerned. Hello, darkness, my old friend.

In another lifetime, Jimi might have fancied Janis. As it was, she
stank of old booze and her feather boa was slimy and rotten. Not that
he was in much better shape; fat maggots crawled around the brim of his
trademark hat. Jim's leather pants, once considered so sexy, had turned
furry green and now enveloped him with the stench of dead cows.

But Jimi still reached out and took Janis's hand; touching wasn't
allowed, of course, but there was no demon in sight. It was limp and
corpse-waxy, but she didn't pull it away. For no apparent reason he
pulled an old plectrum from the wreck of a pocket and ran it across the
black, diamond-hard wall. The plectrum scored a faint line across the
wall's surface. Jimi blinked in puzzlement; he had previously seen
people tear at the wall with fingernails and anything they had to hand,
all to no avail. He dropped Janis's hand and tried again; this time the
plectrum simply snapped. Jim had been watching with the modicum of
interest he could dredge up, then remembered another of his lyrics,
this time all his own work.

"Girl, you gotta love your man. Take him by the hand, make him
understand The world on you depends; your life will never end Gotta
love your man?" No harm in trying? He put an arm round both Jimi and
Janis and aimed a kick at the wall. Bits of the wall suddenly crumbled
on to the floor like black polystyrene.

On earth you work your anger out. But in Rock Hell you work your
anger in. John was full of anger. He had tried to give peace a chance,
but it had got him murdered. And he didn't think he deserved to be here
at all. But his mind was still sharp, though seething. He managed to
suspend his malevolence:

"Hey, you guys; maybe all you need is love!" So the four of them
linked arms and told each other how much they were loved whilst
attacking the wall; large black chunks were now flying in all
directions and a curious crowd had gathered, jerked out of their
misery. Somewhere an alarm began to wail.

In Rock Hell security had always been lax and lazy. As laziness is a
sin, this had hitherto been tolerated, but now there was a serious
situation developing. Demons shrieked and batted their wings at people,
but no one paid them attention any more. By the time one of them
thought to call for anyone more senior, a large hole had appeared in
the black wall. Bodies squeezed through the hole one after the other;
Elvis got stuck, but Jimi and Jim grabbed an arm each, assured him he
was still the King and pulled. He shot through as though covered in
burger grease. Kurt made it, and Michael and Paula came through
hand-in-hand again.

Rock Hell is colourful. No one there sees in black and white, only
in black and red, the pitch blackness of eternal night and the piercing
red of undying flames. However, out here on the perimeter shadows
shifted in a misty haze, and escapees stood in groups of two and three
and four watching the roiling surroundings. As yet there were merely
variations on a dull grey, hints of what might yet be beyond. But it
was the most beautiful colour any of them had ever seen.